


(i am feeling) a little peculiar

by callievalpoli



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Het, Internalized Homophobia, Scheming, Slash, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callievalpoli/pseuds/callievalpoli
Summary: Four times Quinn schemes, and one time she doesn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucylikestowrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylikestowrite/gifts).



> WARNINGS: Canon-typical language including racism, internalized homophobia, Rachel's Mom and Quinn just generally being a head bitch in charge. 
> 
> This story is written for LucyLikesToWrite. I sincerely hope you enjoy it dear. This was about the most fun thing I've had a chance to write in years.

1)

It's the twenty sixth application Quinn's gone through. Rachel Goldberg, twenty two, fresh from college and eager to start in the business.

Quinn’s red pen flies, flick, flick, flick. Goldberg. A jew. Probably hates herself. Went to Smith. Latent homosexual tendencies? But grew up in California. Mommy issues? Daddy issues? It’s the cover letter, though, that really draws Quinn’s eye. Mainly because it’s made out to her. 

Most people who apply to ‘Everlasting’ either go the traditional route, ‘Dear Sir or Madam,’ or cut to the chase with, ‘Dear Mr. Wilton.’ Quinn gets it. She does. Not too long ago she was writing a ‘Dear Mr. Wilton,’ letter of her very own. But seeing her name, seeing, ‘Dear Ms. King,’ gives her the first real smile she’s had in who knows how long. 

The letter that follows is crap, of course. Wanting to work with a female-run show, wanting to contribute to the success that is ‘Everlasting’, wanting to be a part of such a wonderful endeavor. Crap, crap, _crap_. But she can work with it, maybe. Maybe. 

She makes the call herself. She _could_ get an intern to do it. _Chet_ would get an intern to do it. But Chet doesn't understand people. _Chet_ doesn’t understand how much easier it is to motivate people with honey than with a stick. Or, at least that it’s important to use both the honey _and_ the stick. She sets the time. Soon. Too soon really. And just before she hangs up, she says, lies, “Rachel, I _know_ you’re going to wow me.” 

Rachel shows up out of breath, hair in a messy bun on top of her head, and wearing what Quinn can only hope is a workout outfit. “Ms. King?” Rachel says, and her smile is so big it looks like the cheshire fucking cat. 

“Hi, Rachel?” Quinn says, and puts on an equally oversized smile of her own. She kisses her cheeks, and the fact that Rachel has Brash Boysenberry on her cheekbone for the rest of the interview is enough to keep Quinn’s spirits high.

Quinn asks all the boring questions, where did you go to school, who was your greatest influence, if you could describe yourself in three words, what would they be, what actor have you gotten off to most often--just the old standbys. She doesn’t listen to the answers of course. Who cares? Instead she takes Rachel in, the bitten down nails, the Tom's with holes in the toes, the rattle of at least one pill bottle from the inside of her purse. At one point she straight out cuts Rachel off, says, "You have _such_ beautiful hair. Has anyone ever told you that? Do you wear it down ever? Do you mind if I..." and she untwists the rubber band from Rachel's hair, being so, so careful not to let it catch. Quinn carefully, so carefully, runs her perfectly manicured nails through Rachel's hair. Rachel's eyes fall closed, and Quinn lets the status hold for ten seconds, twenty, and then she says, "There. Don't you look... _cute_." Rachel's eyes fly open and a blush blossoms on her cheekbones.

"Um--" Rachel says.

But before she can go into whatever banal _crap_ she wants to go into, Quinn takes a step back and lets her smile fade. "Rachel, I don't want to waste any more of your time. I know you applied for the internship, but I think we both know that position won't work for you."

The way Rachel's face breaks is a thing of beauty. "But, Ms. King. I know I don't have the experience, but I just really think I'll be able to make a difference here. 'Everlasting' is such a staple in the American culture, and I _really_ want to be a part of it."

Quinn let's her smile reform on her lips. "I want you to be a part of it too. But not as an _intern_. I mean, the intern isn't even a position with the show. Not really. No. I want you to be the most important position of all. I want _you_ to be my personal assistant."

Rachel just stares at her for a second, and then, suddenly, there are coltishly long arms around her neck, and a young body jostling just _too_ close. "Oh my god, _thank_ you Ms. King. So, _so_ much! You don't even know what this means to me." And then there's nothing but a shrieky squeal.

Quinn pats Rachel's back half-heartedly a couple times, and then she's shaking her off. "Sure. No problem."

Rachel calms down a bit, bites back her smile even, but the sheer _glee_ is still shining through in her eyes. "Thank you Ms. King."

"You'll start tomorrow." Quinn says, sitting in her chair. She turns her back to the room, lets her own Machiavellian smile out. "6:00am sharp. Bring coffee. Not that crap from Starbucks. Get it from the good place."

"Where..." Rachel starts.

"How am I supposed to know. Just ask... someone." Quinn composes her face again, steeples her fingers, and spins her chair. "And Rachel?"

"Yes?" Rachel says. And she looks eager. She looks _hungry_.

"Don't disappoint me," Quinn says. And then she smiles.

Rachel's return smile is tempered with something Quinn can't quite read.

2)

Rachel knows what it means to be a part of 'Everlasting'. She's not stupid. After a month of working together, Quinn is one hundred percent sure that Rachel may be many things, but she's _not_ stupid. So the fact that Hubert Humphry is on set--the same Hubert Humphry whose shoots Rachel's been scheduling for the past two weeks--should not currently be sending her PA into an anxiety-induced panic attack. Which doesn't explain the fact that Rachel is currently curved into the space between the toilet and the stall in the staff bathroom, breathing into a paper bag. Quinn's wondering if Wagerstein can actually fix Rachel, or if she should just write up the pink slip now. Which sucks. Rachel is good. Rachel is _perfect_. Maybe Quinn can keep her, but just lock her up at home. That might work. Rachel's fucking gifted. At Quinn.

There's a knock at the stall door, which Quinn is about to answer, when she hears, "Rachel. Sweetie. It's your mom. Open the door sweetie." Quinn keeps quiet, figuring maybe Mrs.... Rachel? What the fuck is Rachel's last name again? Mrs. Jewish Mom? Whatever. She might be able to fix Rachel. 

There's silence for a solid minute, but for the wheeze of the paper bag. And then Rachel's Mom says, "Rachel, will you please stop this. I know your narcissistic personality disorder means you always need the attention on yourself, but faking a panic attack is a bit much. If you would just behave like an adult, we can have a session right now. I know you've been missing your sessions for the last month. Dr. Hornsby told me you haven't been showing up..."

Rachel's face... Quinn can't look away. Her eyes are screwed shut, but tears are still leaking from the corner of her eye. She looks up at Quinn, seemingly on accident, and then she's closing her eyes even tighter, turning her face into the stall, as if that will hide the fact that Quinn is there. Quinn can see everything. Quinn can _hear_ everything. Her breathing grows more pronounced again, and that's it. That's enough. Quinn may-- _does_ \--control Rachel too much for her own good. But that's because Rachel is _hers_. And Quinn doesn't like to share. 

Quinn swings the door open, with her evilest smile in her arsenal firmly in place. "Get the fuck out."

"I'm sorry--"

"Get the _fuck_ out of my studio!" Quinn says, and then she's yelling, "guards!" at the top of her lungs. And the camera guys seem to get that something's going on. They run into the bathroom, and after gives them a look or two, they grab Rachel's Mom. "Get her the fuck out of here," Quinn says, and trusts them to take care of it. She has more important things to deal with. 

Quinn pulls the lipstick from her purse and slowly applies a layer to the bottom lip. She pushes her jaw out, swipes a finger under her bottom lip. "Moms suck." She purses her lips, carefully draws the peaks to perfection. Drags _slowly_ down the top lip to where it meets her bottom lip. "I fucking hate mine. Totally disinherited her." She pushes her lips together, then smacks them, smirks a kissy face at herself. "Bitch."

There's a watery chuckle from the stall.

Quinn kicks Rachel's purse in to her, and then she grabs a tissue from the box, wipes the black smudges from half a day's work from under her eyelids. "God, kid. Don't grow old." There's the sound of Rachel blowing her nose, then the sound of a pill bottle shaking. "It's basically impossible to keep 'this'" she gestures at her face "up anymore without spending more time on it than my fucking sex life. Which is funny, because that's how I get my fucking sex life in the first place." Rachel's face appears in the mirror next to her. Quinn offers her lipstick. "You could use a little color."

Rachel makes to take the lipstick, but Quinn just smiles at her, and opens the tube. She holds Rachel's chin, and moves her as she needs, while she paints her mouth a rich plum, and by the end, paints a smile back on her perfect lips. "There's my Rachel."

"Quinn," Rachel says, grabbing her wrist where it's braced against Rachel's chin, "thank you. No one's ever--well, no one's ever _understood_."

"All better?" Quinn asks.

Rachel nods.

"Well? What are you doing in here? Get the fuck out there and meet my Suitor!"

Rachel slowly lets Quinn's wrist fall from her hand. She smiles at Quinn as she walks out the door.

Quinn smiles back. For a minute or so, she just smiles, thinking about Rachel's smile. And then she realizes what she's doing and--

"Don't do this, Quinn," she tells the mirror version of herself. "Don't fucking fuck this up." The Quinn in the mirror looks like crap-- like she's seen a ghost.

"You're not _in love_ with Rachel," Quinn tells her reflection.

For some reason, her reflection looks--

Quinn presses her walkie button. "Where the hell is Chet?"

*

There's a new memo for the security guards the next morning. "Rachel's Mom is not allowed on set." Included is a picture of Mrs. Goldberg. The devil horns are Quinn's personal favorite.

3) 

Quinn and Chet are fucking. Just like always. And they're good together. Just like they always are. It's good. It's _good_. Quinn is gonna come. She's gonna _come._ And then, for some reason, she sees Rachel's face. For the fourth time in the last ten minutes. "Crap."

"Yeah, good, huh?" Chet says, fucking her harder.

Quinn can fix this. Quinn _will_ fix this. "Who do we need?" she asks.

"What?" Chet says, kissing her neck. 

Quinn pushes his face away, but arches into his thrusts. "Who do we need? On set?"

Chet comes to a stop, which is _not_ what Quinn needs right now. She tries slapping his ass, which gets her nothing. "Isn't that your job? Knowing who we need. You know, running the show?"

Quinn pulls herself off his dick, which is _really_ not what she needs right now, but at the same time, is definitely what she needs right now. "You know what I mean. You're little _boys club_ talks to you. Who isn't fitting in?"

Chet just stares at her then stares at his dick, then goes back to staring at her.

"Chet!" she says, snapping her fingers in front of his face. 

"Fine. Fine! The camera operator. Apparently the guy isn't down, if you know what I mean."

"Seldom if ever," Quinn says. She pulls her panties up and straightens her skirt, ignoring Chet's whining. She has a new assistant director to find.

*

The first thirty guys are ugly as crap, each one uglier than the last. The thirty first is a woman. 'Headshots,' Quinn writes in her planner. Then she underlines it. Three times. And that's when there's a knock on her door. "What _is_ it! I'm working, here."

"Hey, sorry I'm late," someone says, and Quinn is frankly too depressed to look up from her planner. "I was working my other job and...." he trails off.

Quinn looks up at him finally and sees--liquid sex in a sweaty stubbled package. "Thank fucking god!"

Sex god stares at her for a good ten-count, then he says, "Uh, well, I'm sure you've already hired someone. I just figured, nothing tried, nothing gained, right?"

"Ventured," Quinn says, then, when it looks like he's going to speak again, "nevermind. You're hired."

"Um, don't you want to see my portfolio?" he asks.

"Just-- show it to Sam. Or someone who cares."

"Okay?" he says. "Okay." He smiles, and looks like he's going to keep talking. 

"Leave. Now." Quinn says.

His smile dims a bit, but is still there as he walks out the door.

Just as the door's about to close, Quinn remembers, "Name! Hey, you! What's your name?"

From the hallway she hears, "Jeremy Caner."

She writes 'Jeremy Caner' in her planner. She can't help but add, 'stupid fucking name.'

*

"So, what's the big surprise?" Rachel says, looking at Quinn suspiciously. "You're not planning me another surprise birthday again just to see which craft service birthday cake is better, right?"

"What? No. Of course not," Quinn says. "Here we are," she says, stopping in front of Jeremy. "This is Jeremy. The new cam-guy. Jeremy? Rachel."

Jeremy looks at Rachel like she's a magical fairy or some crap. He looks speechless. Which Quinn gets. She made Rachel go to makeup and put on an actual dress today. When Rachel came out of that trailer, Quinn was pretty speechless herself.

"Hey," Jeremy says, finally, smiling like a smitten kitten. 

"Hey," Rachel says back, and... well... she doesn't exactly sound smitten. She doesn't even look terribly smitten, when Quinn stops to look at her. Which is just impossible, really. Quinn convinced Sam to do a hazing ritual that involved forcing Jeremy to wear a crew shirt two sizes too small, and pushing him into the pool. Hell, Quinn's wet just looking at the guy.

Quinn waits for a couple minutes for the natural magic of hot people being hot together to work their charm. Nothing happens. "Rachel. Walk with me," Quinn says, tugging Rachel away.

"It was nice to meet you," Rachel says.

"Yeah," Jeremy says. "Ah, yeah. See you around."

"Well?" Quinn says as they walk toward craft services.

" _Well?_ " Rachel says, arching an eyebrow at Quinn.

"What do you think?" 

"Of Jeremy?" Rachel asks. At Quinn's look, she says, "I mean, I don't even know the guy. He seems... nice. But I don't know how good he is at his job. I mean, I'm not really qualified to judge something like that. Unless. Oh. Were you trying to figure out if he was going to be a perv? Cause, I mean, I'm not sure, but I _think_ he was staring at my boobs. Kinda a little skeevy, you know?"

"Rachel..." Quinn says, and leaves it hanging there. 

"Yeah?"

"Can't you tell how into you he is?" Quinn says, linking their arms together.

"No. Really? No way. He's, like, _way_ out of my league. And besides, he's not really my type."

"Really?" Quinn says, looking at her incredulously. "You're saying gorgeous isn't your type?"

"Uh, not really? I mean, gorgeous people seem to be, you know, a little too interested in themselves? And not interested enough in a relationship." She stops, laughs a little. "Not that I would know. I mean, the longest relationship I've ever had was three months. And that was just because he traveled internationally, so I had to wait a full month to break up with him."

"Rachel," Quinn tugs her until they're facing each other. "You trust me, right?"

"Of course," Rachel says.

"I think you should try this," Quinn says. She doesn't let herself cross her fingers. She doesn't let herself tack a 'not' onto the end of the sentence. She doesn't let herself feel anything other than what a concerned friend would feel.

About a million emotions seem to cross Rachel's face. Eventually, she breaks away, links their arms back together. 

"Yeah," she says. "Okay."

4)

"It's not working," Quinn says. "I don't get it. Why isn't it working?"

"I don't know why you thought it would," Wagerstein says. "Honesty is the--"

"I can't get her out of my head!" Quinn says, practically wails. After spending four hours straight watching tape last night with Rachel and her _perfect_ boyfriend Jeremy just in frame, she feels like she might be finally going insane. She's cataloged every single moment of hand holding, every single stray lock of hair tucked behind an ear, every single kiss on the cheek. And what it adds up to is a perfect fucking couple. "What the hell is this? I can't even have sex with Chet anymore. He's cut me off. Says he's not into crying. I'm apparently crying now!"

"I've noticed," Wagerstein says and hands her a box of tissues. 

Quinn runs a knuckle over her cheek, only to find it's wet with tears. "This is such _crap!_ I'm not supposed to feel. I'm not supposed to care." She blows her nose loudly. "I _don't_ care."

"Quinn," Wagerstein says, "I think we both know you care. And I think we both know what you need to do."

And suddenly Quinn knows. She knows exactly what to do. "Make him cheat," she says. She's pretty sure she hears Wagerstein say something about honesty, but she's too busy concocting her scheme to listen to anything else from Wagerstein.

*

Jeremy isn't into blonds.

*

Jeremy isn't into blacks.

*

Jeremy isn't into Asians.

*

Apparently Jeremy isn't into cheating. Quinn tries everything she can think of, throws him into every sticky situation she can find, keeps Rachel and Jeremy apart for almost a month. And he doesn't cheat on her once. Not even a handy.

Finally, Quinn decides to just do what she does best. Connive. Scheme. Lie. 

She flies Rachel in unexpectedly on a red-eye. She's careful, so careful with the timing. Rachel walks onto set to see Jeremy exiting the bathroom still zipping his fly--enough to disgust anyone, if you ask Quinn. And then, directly after, out walks Quinn's special accomplice--one of the contestants Quinn paid off, intentionally mussed enough to make it seem obvious just what had happened. Rachel asks, of course. And the girl lies beautifully, all, "Oh, I didn't know he was seeing anyone," and, "I thought you were still at the castle."

It's going perfectly. It's all going perfectly, until--

Quinn shouldn't be watching in person. She shouldn't be. But some masochistic part of herself needed to be there--needed to see all of this. 

But then Rachel's seeing Quinn standing there, then Rachel's walking toward her, and asking, "Did you know?"

For a second, Quinn can't figure out what Rachel's talking about. "Rachel..."

"Did you know, Quinn? Is that why you were keeping us apart? Were you trying to save me from--" Rachel swallows hard.

And Quinn remembers. She has to keep up the pretense. She has to, otherwise it will all be for nothing. She has to say, "No, of course not, I would have _told_ you." Which is why it shocks her when she actually says, "Yes."

The look Rachel gives her, then-- Quinn's never felt so _slayed_ by a single look. "How _could_ you Quinn? I _trusted_ you. You _know_ how much I trusted you."

"Rachel--"

"Don't." Rachel takes a bottle of champagne as she backs away. "Just--I don't even want to look at you."

+1)

When Rachel says "I love you," Quinn can't process it. Not for a day. Not for a week. Not for a fucking month. 

It comes to her, finally, in the middle of the night, out of a dead sleep. 

She _runs_ over to the hellhole of a place Rachel's living in now, because she's a moron now, apparently, and it's raining, of all the crappy things, and she doesn't have a boombox to serenade with, and she doesn't know which window to throw a stone at, and she's not going to throw stones at windows randomly. She's not a fucking weirdo. So, it's anticlimactic really when she hits the buzzer. 

It takes Rachel ten minutes at least to come to the buzzer, and when she answers, she says, "J-Rox lives in _three_ Benny, how many times do I have to tell you. Christ!" But she lets Quinn in, anyhow.

Quinn doesn't take the stairs two at a time. She is short, damnit. She doesn't race up the stairs only to arrive panting at Rachel's door with her profession of love. In fact, she takes a second with her compact to try and rectify her hair. Quinn is hot as shit, thank you, and she is certainly going to put her best foot forward. 

When she knocks on the door, Rachel's in pajamas that have pigs on them. Which is so _Rachel_ that Quinn cannot even _say_ anything for a minute. So it's Rachel who breaks the silence. "Quinn. What are you doing here? Is something wrong?" 

"You meant it, didn't you?" Quinn says, looking at Rachel. "You're in love with me."

Rachel's cheeks flush pink. "I... Why don't we talk about this tomorrow. It's late, Quinn."

Quinn seems to be drawn to Rachel magnetically. She brushes Rachel's pinkened cheek with her thumb, then, without even thinking, cups her jaw and pulls her into a kiss.

"Um?" Rachel says.

"I love you," Quinn says. "I'm in love with you. God that sounds fucking stupid." She laughs. "You're it for me, Rachel."

Rachel just stares at Quinn for a minute, and then she's launching herself at Quinn. Their kiss has too much spit and too much tongue and is a little off-center. 

It's perfect.


End file.
